


How To Survive Six Hours At Freddy's

by Rockinmuffin



Series: Please Don't Touch The Animatronics [2]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Character Death, Crack, Crude Humor, Dark Comedy, Exaggerated Sexual Harassment that borders on Sexual Assault, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Fetish, Furries, Gender-neutral Reader, M/M, Mildly Explicit, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, POV Second Person, Parody, Possible Kink Shaming, Reader gets a taste of their own medicine, Reader-Insert, Sexual Harassment, basically Mangle is a freak-a-leak, non-consensual butt-touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You accept the job, expecting more of the same old, same old.  You’ve handled animatronics before, so you figure dealing with these other ‘bots should be a piece of cake, right?</p><p>Haha.  WRONG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hour 1: New Rabbit, Old Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Five Night’s at Freddy’s.
> 
> Enough people messaged me saying they were still thirsty for some hot robo-furry action so, after nearly half a year’s wait, here’s the sequel. I hope it doesn’t disappoint, sinners.
> 
> The plan is for the chapters to be short like they were in the last story. This chapter’s a bit longer since it’s both the prologue and the first chapter all in one go.

Five and a half months since your very brief stint with Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, the last thing you ever expected was a phone call from its owner. And yet, here you are, staring down at the vaguely familiar number on your cell phone’s caller ID.

You consider ignoring it, but there’s nothing on TV except for anti-aging cream infomercials so you decide against that if only because you have nothing better going on with your life. You pick up the phone on the fourth ring, answering with a grunt.

“Hey,” comes the man’s voice over the line, dripping with false niceties. “I don’t know if you remember me, but this is the owner of Freddy Faz—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt. “Just get to the point; what do you want from me?”

There’s a short pause on the other side of the line as the man changes his strategy. He clears his throat. “You interested in making a few bucks?”

“I’m listening.”

He clears his throat again before continuing. “Thanks in great part to your efforts and the guide you provided from your experience working the night shift, we’ve successfully been able to handle the animatronics. I haven’t had a security guard die on me since! The lack of employee deaths and injuries has been great for business. We’ve been doing so well, in fact, that I’ve recently decided to branch out and reopen one of our old locations from the eighties.”

You roll your eyes, quickly growing bored with the conversation. “Good for you. Now what does any of that have to do with you paying me?”

“I was hoping you’d be willing to deal with the animatronics for me.”

“Again? If you still have the guide, then what do you need me for?”

“Well,” he drawls, “The old location has a few more robots that we left behind during the last move. And like the bots you’ve already dealt with, these ones have a few… _kinks_. The guards have gotten used to the animatronics here, but they’re a little hesitant to watch over robots that haven’t been properly tested out first. I figured you could pop in and maybe spend a night or two figuring out the best ways to handle each of the new animatronics. Easy money.”

“Easy money, huh? And how much does this job of yours pay?” you ask, tone of voice conveying disinterest. “Minimum wage?”

“Try _two dollars_ over minimum wage,” comes his smug reply.

“…You’ve got yourself a deal.”

_****_

~*~

First hour at Freddy Fuckbear’s Fur-Fetishist Palace, and you’re sitting behind a junk-covered desk, large open air vents on either side of you and a long open hallway in front of you. There are no doors here, not that you ever needed them in the first place.

There’s a big plush Freddy Fazbear mascot mask on the left-hand side of the desk. You look it over briefly before chucking the ugly thing across the room.

On the right side of the desk is a huge security duty flashlight covered in a fine layer of dust. You pick it up, flip the switch, and are surprised to find that it’s still got some juice left in it. You quickly turn the light back off. There’s no telling how much longer it’ll last and something deep in your gut tells you you’re going to need to conserve as much of it as possible.

You continue to survey the area, getting a feel for your new base of operations. Beneath the desk, you find a crumpled note. You pick it up and smooth out the paper to reveal a message scrawled messily across the page in dark red ink: _DON’T FORGET TO WIND UP THE MUSIC BOX_.

…The fuck is that supposed to mean?

You toss it over your shoulder towards the nearest waste basket and miss the shot. You don’t bother picking it up because this place already looks like a shithole.

Satisfied with your inspection of your immediate surroundings, you begin to look over the camera feeds. You familiarize yourself with the new building’s layout while you wait for something to happen. When you look at the security feed for the prize room, you see there’s a crank-operated option to wind up the music box.

You shrug. It was important enough for someone to write a cryptic note about, so you figure it can’t hurt to err on the side of caution. With a casual twist of your wrist, you wind the music box then flip through the rest of the cameras. 

Camera duty goes by rather uneventfully; unsurprising, considering you’ve only been here for little over ten minutes. Saving the best for last, you decide to finally check up on the animatronics on stage.

“So this is the new gang, huh?” You cross your arms, staring the robots down with a critical eye. “Jesus Christ, their eyes are _huge_. Damn kids and their anime.”

As if it can hear you, the bunny turns to face the camera. _All the better to see you with, my dear_.

“Yeah, fuck you too, rabbit.”

Another twenty minutes go by without so much as a spooky sound. You wind up the music box in-between checking to see if the animatronics have moved their lazy asses yet.

Forty minutes into the shift, you watch calmly as Toy Bonnie makes its way to you through the vents. While the vent-crawling is a little unsettling, and you still haven’t gotten used to those big peepers, you can’t bring yourself to be even a little frightened. This bright-eyed, buck-toothed fuck doesn’t hold a candle to the original Bonnie’s ugly mug and you never found the purple rabbit to be scary in the first place.

You hear it clunk its way through the vents as it clumsily crawls closer and closer to your office. Then, suddenly, the sound stops.

You flash the light on the right vent entrance and see them big ol’ greens staring right back at you.

“So you like crawling around in tight spaces, huh?” You smirk, legs spread obscenely as you lounge back in your chair. “I’ve got a tight space you can stick yourself in.”

Still on its knees, the bunny gives you a quick onceover before sweeping its plastic tongue across its buckteeth. “Yeah? Sounds good to me.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting that. You’re not used to getting this kind of response to your horrible pick-up lines. Usually it has the opposite effect.

It pulls itself out of the vent, eyelids lowered and long eyelashes fluttering as it sashays its way over to sprawl itself across your desk like a cheap lounge singer. It lifts a leg up in the air and if it actually had any genitals you’d have an eyeful of its nuts and bolts.

“What are you waiting for; a formal invitation? I’m _rusting_ over here!”

This is wrong. The rabbit is supposed to run away from you in fear—maybe even lower its head helplessly in fearful sexual submission while trying to deflect your advances—not gaze back at you with a set of glossy plastic bedroom eyes.

It’s not supposed to _want_ to fuck you.

You scoot back in your chair, gaining some much-needed distance between you and Bonnie. Your victory is short-lived, however, as the robot slides off your desk and straight into your lap. Its smile absolutes _oozes_ sex and it is, without a doubt, the most horrifying thing you have ever seen.

You grip the chair’s armrests tight enough to drain the color from your knuckles. “But, _why_?” you ask but—shit—it sounds more like a terrified whimper and this is _not_ how you expected this night to be going.

It raises one of its thick eyebrows. “Why what?”

“You’re a singing animatronic animal at a children’s restaurant. Why would you have any desire to bang? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Listen, hun, the gang and I have been alone here for _years_. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever spent any prolonged amount of time with no one for company other than a couple other robot jackasses, but loneliness like that can really mess with your head. At this point, I’d let just about anyone mess around with my circuits.”

“But you don’t even have any junk,” you say, looking down to stare very pointedly at its crotch.

“Don’t worry about it.” It wiggles its eyebrows. “I can be very creative.”

A blue finger boops your nose, passes down your lips, then trails down your neck toward the center of your chest. When it starts fiddling with the top button of your security uniform, its intent becomes dangerously clear.

You jerk backwards. “Wait! We can’t do it right now. Not like this.”

“Why not?” It tilts its head.

“Because, uh…” You wrack your brain for any excuse. “We need lube, obviously. Lots and lots of lube. Everyone knows that all sex is better with lube. Unless you _want_ to tear my ass in two. Is that what you want? Huh?!”

“Well…”

“No,” you interrupt, “ _You don’t_ , because that would make you an inconsiderate lover and no one fucks an inconsiderate lover twice.”

Bonnie makes a sound akin to a sigh. “This is a kid’s place. I don’t think there’s any lube just lying around.”

“I dunno, then get something else. Pizza grease, hand soap; _something_.”

The rabbit cringes. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“You know what else doesn’t sound pleasant. Your cold metal dick up my dry asshole.”

“But, I don’t have a d—”

“Shh,” you shush it, index finger pressed against its buck teeth. “Do this for me and I’ll let you do _anything_ you want to me.”

“Anything?”

“ _Anything_.

With the promise of some unspeakably kinky hot human-on-robot-animal action, Bonnie lifts itself off of your lap and heads towards the door. It stops at the exit, giving your body one last shudder-inducing onceover before setting off on its quest for a suitable lube substitute.

You let out a sigh of relief as the blue rabbit finally leaves the room.

Sure, this just means that you’ll have to figure out how to deal with Bonnie a little farther down the road, but you’ll worry about crossing that bridge once you got there. For now, you just have to take things one step at a time.

You take a moment to just sit down and breathe as you gather your thoughts.

When you accepted this job, you had thought this was just going to be just another night, rehashing the same tired routine with mildly amusing but predictable results.

You thought wrong.

You don’t know if this is karma or coincidence or God’s sick idea of a joke. All you _do_ know is that your old brand of tricks won’t work on these horny robots. You’re going to have to be clever and original if you want to make it out of here with your dignity intact and your butthole tight.

You lean back in your chair with your face in your hands.

“Oh God, I’m _fucked_.”


	2. Hour 2: Shota Complex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever you do, don’t spank Balloon Boy. He’ll probably like it.

Second hour, you’re curled up under the desk in the fetal position, praying to whatever god or goddess or flying spaghetti monster that might be listening.

“I promise,” you mouth the words silently, lips pressed to your knees, “If I make it out of this without robot rod D inserted into my slot B, I’ll stop evading my taxes and I’ll never sexually harass another demon-possessed mechanical furry ever again. Probably. At least for a week.”

Your bargaining plea falls on deaf ears. You receive no response; no booming voice or clap of thunder or even a touch on your shoulder from a delicious yet omnificent noodly appendage. If there really is a God out there, such an entity dares not show itself in Furry Fuckbear’s Penetration Station. It looks like you’re on your own tonight.

Every few minutes, in-between bouts of silent sobbing, you peek your head out to check on the music box and wind it up when necessary. Otherwise, you remain hidden. You don’t know if Bonnie will ever find what it’s looking for, but you highly doubt it’s the only robot in this dilapidated shithole looking for love in all the wrong places; i.e., your hot butt.

For once in your life, you can admit that you are in _way_ over your head. If you want to get out of this hot mess, you’re going to need some help.

You pull your phone out from your pants pocket, the light gleaming off your screen illuminating your hiding place with a soft blue glow. You scroll through your contacts list in search of someone who can save you.

You’d call the police, but you have the feeling they won’t come running when you tell them you need protection from a giant blue fuck-rabbit. Even if you lied about burglars or something, you’d fear even whispering from your hiding spot might alert the animatronics to your location.

You could text one of your friends, but you know none of them would believe you. And, on the off chance that they actually take your words to heart, there’s no way any of them would be able to fend off the sexual advances of an amorous animatronic. Just because you’re boned doesn’t mean you have to screw over your friends too. 

There’s only one person on your contact list who stands half a chance against these robo-furries.

Swallowing your pride, you tap their name and hit the messaging button. **Bae** , you type, **I could really use your help right now.**

You send the text. Seconds later, your phone vibrates to alert you of a new text. You find yourself staring straight at a close-up image of Golden Freddy’s furry golden crotch.

You frown. **No, not that kind of help, you asshole bear. I’m in the old Fazbear’s location and if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m as good as fucked!**

**;)**

**Don’t you fucking wink at that! I’m in real trouble right now and I’m asking for your help!**

**8=D**

**Yeah, well, fuck you too. You’re the absolute worst.**

**;P**

Alright, so _that_ accomplished a whole lot of nothing. You tuck your phone back into your pocket and mentally prepare yourself to face your untimely but inevitable end. God can’t help you, your shit-lord demonic furry booty-call _won’t_ help you, and you sure as hell can’t help yourself.

You close your eyes and resign yourself to a night full of debauchery and robot dong.

Suddenly, the most high-pitched, nonstop, ear-piercing laughter echoes throughout the room.

First, you decide to just wait it out. Whatever’s making that awful noise, the last thing you want to do is face it head on. But then a thought occurs to you; what if it’s a kid? What if some idiot snot-nosed brat somehow snuck into the pizzeria? Or what if a negligent parent left them behind? You can’t just leave a child to fend themselves against a group of sex-starved animatronics. You’d have to be some kind of heartless bastard to abandon a child in need.

Also, free meat shield.

With that final thought in mind, you gather enough courage to carefully peek your head out from underneath the desk.

You don’t have to look far. There, standing in the corner of the room, is the ugliest little piece of rat shit you have ever had the misfortune of seeing.

“Hi!”

You don’t respond; just stare at it dully as you try to figure out what the hell it’s supposed to be.

“You must be the new security guard Bonnie was talking about. It’s been a while since we’ve had one of you around here.”

Seriously, is it some kind of a puppet? A dwarf? The illegitimate love-child between Danny Devito and a rotting tree stump? It doesn’t fit in with the robot animal motif at _all_.

“So, is it true? What Bonnie said?”

You eye it warily. It doesn’t appear as threatening as the other animatronics that you’ve seen, but you know better than to let your guard down. “Depends. What did Bonnie say?”

“You know…” It wiggles its creepy mechanical eyebrows. “That you’re down to fuck.”

“ _What_.”

The little whatever-the-fuck-it-is circles you. “You’re not the hottest person to walk through these doors, but you’re alright, I guess.”

“Yeah, well fuck you too.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

You shudder. “ _Eww_.”

“But seriously,” it just grins at it continues to eye you up and down, “You might not be the most attractive person I’ve seen but you’ve definitely got one of the nicest asses. Like two balloons ready to burst. A balloon butt.”

“Thank you?”

You jump as you feel a firm slap against your buttocks.

“What the fuck.” You stare at the little wooden robot shit’s toothy grin as you take a couple steps back from it. “What in the actual _fuck_.”

“So, what do you say, sugar-lips? How’s about you and me get that balloon _popped_.”

You blink. “Was that…? Was that supposed to be an innuendo?”

The little shit just smiles back.

“Okay, I know I’m a deviant motherfucker, but even _I_ wouldn’t hit on something that looks like a six-year-old, let alone fuck it.”

You’re way too old for this shota weeaboo bullshit. Literally. You’re an adult, damn it, and you’re not going to jail or hell or wherever the heck baby-puppet-fuckers end up going just because Pinocchio’s failed attempt at an abortion can’t take _no_ for an answer.

Without further ado, you bend down, pick up the little fucker under the armpits, turn it at a 180 degree angle, then place it back down. Its feet squeak against the tiles as you push it across the floor and towards the room’s exit.

“Hey, hey!” it shouts. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Disciplining you. Now go to your room and think about what you’ve done.”

“But I—”

“Go to your room and think about what you’ve done!”

“I’m not a—”

“NOW!”

“ _Fine_. Asshole,” it mutters under its breath.

“You watch your language when speaking to me!”

It rolls its eyes as it skulks out the office.

“I don’t like your attitude! YOU’RE GROUNDED, LITTLE MISTER! NO DESSERT TONIGHT! NO VIDEO GAMES FOR A WEEK!”

You turn back to the monitor, making sure the little shit went back by the carousel where it belongs. It’s there; sulking like the little shit that it is, but it’s there.

You lean back in your chair, feeling strangely accomplished. “I’d make a great parent.”


	3. Hour 3: Chicken Breasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toy Chica; the other, _other_ white meat.

Third hour, you’re back to sitting behind the desk instead of beneath it.

You’re done with all that cowering bullshit. When a pudgy six-year-old-looking fuck-trumpet gets the idea that it can walk all over you and proposition you for sexy times, that’s when you have to wake up, pull on your big kid pants, and face the legion of yiff-bots head-on with fire in your eyes and your asshole clenched tight.

Sure, greeting these new animatronics with suggestive come-ons has blown up in your face spectacularly, but just because you can’t flirt them into submission doesn’t mean you’re going to bend over and let them have their graphically-described way with you. You’re more than just some one-trick pony, damn it, and like hell are you going to let Chuck E. Cheese’s overly-friendly cousins send you running.

Speaking of horny robots, you haven’t seen one in a while. You’ve been sitting undisturbed in this office for a good ten minutes. If you understand the habits and behaviors of sex-starved animatrons even half as much as you think you do, then you know it’s about time for one of them to come and bother you.

You take hold of your heavy duty security flashlight, shine it at the hallway in front of you and, lo and behold, there’s Chica. Well, the new-and-improved Chica—or is it the old Chica?—sporting bright pink booty shorts and an hourglass figure.

You raise an eyebrow. _Shit_. If this is what people back in the 80’s thought was family friendly, then no wonder these toy animatronics are a bunch of freaks between the sheets.

Maybe you’re feeling a little overconfident because of the end results of your last creepy robot encounter, but, evil possessed animatronics aside, it’s hard to feel intimidated by something that’s wearing a bib.

Chica takes a step towards you, a tray with a single cupcake on it held out to you like an offering.

“Go away, Chica. I don’t want any of your creepy eye-cupcakes. It’s not even a real cupcake. The cupcake’s a lie.”

It turns its head to the cupcake then back to you. “But it’s so delicious and moist.”

“Yeah, okay. _Pass_.”

You twirl the bulky flashlight in one hand and end up dropping it mid-spin like the clumsy fuck-up you are. By the time you pick it back up and shine it on the hallway, Chica’s gone.

“Now where the hell did that Kentucky-fried fucker go—GODDAMN!” you shout as it pops up directly in front of your desk.

“Let’s party!”

You quickly collect yourself then shrug. “Yeah, sure, I like to party. Any beer in this place? I could use a drink right now like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. No beer here; Freddy Fazbear’s is an alcohol-free environment. But don’t you worry,” it says as it trails its cold mechanical hands along the dip of its waist to the curve of its hips. “I’ve got something that you can use to wet your whistle.”

You gulp. “On second thought, I’m not thirsty anymore.”

It tilts its head to the side. “You sure?”

You nod your head fervently.

“Okay, that’s fine. No drinks. Let’s just get this party started.” It grins at you, a devious glint in its eye. “And what’s a party without party games?”

“You mean, like, pin the tail on the donkey?”

“No,” its grin widens as it leans over the desk to get into your personal space. “More like spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven. Oh, and ride the security guard’s face until their face turns purple.”

“…I don’t think I like your kind of games.”

“What’s wrong, security guard?” it asks as it crawls up onto the desk, hands on its thighs as it hovers over you. “I thought you liked to party!”

“Nope, I lied!” you say as you press yourself to the back of your chair. “I _hate_ parties. I’m a party pooper. I like to spend my Friday nights alone with a glass of wine and a good book. I think collecting stamps is a blast. The last time I went to a party, it ended up with everything catching on _fire_.”

“Aww, I get it. You’re nervous, right? I bet you’ve never been with a girl as cute as me before, huh? Don’t worry,” it says as it reaches down and teasingly swirls its thumb in a circle pattern over your hip bone, “I know exactly what to do to help you relax.”

Then it brings its hands to its face and removes its beak and _holy mother of fuck_ you don’t want that gaping maw of nightmares anywhere near your delicate bits. God _damn_.

The beak’s bad enough but it isn’t the only thing Chica’s removing.

All you can do is watch in open-mouthed horror as the chicken adjusts its legs and takes off the pink metal plating of its booty shorts, revealing the mesh of wire and endoskeleton underneath. Mostly, you’re relieved you didn’t get an eyeful of cloaca. The rest of your brain is terrified by the prospect of a high voltage electrical jolt shooting straight to your soft, fleshy groin.

With the power of fear-induced adrenaline, you shove Chica away from you and turn to get the fuck out of there. You’re not fast enough, though, because Chica manages to get a grip on your pants leg, causing you to fall crashing to the ground.

“Where do you think you’re going, security guard? We’re just about to start the fun part!”

“Nononononononononono!”

You dig your fingernails into the floor, scraping uselessly across the tile as Chica pulls you backwards by the ankles. In your struggle, you slip, face-planting and getting your head stuck in something that was laid out across the floor. Whatever it is you landed on, it sticks firmly to your face and obstructs your view enough that you can only see a little bit out of your right eye.

You already can hardly see, so it’s nothing but pure frightened instinct that has you close your eyes as Chica grabs you by your hips and rolls you over until you’re lying on your back. You can feel it lower itself onto you to straddle your stomach. You expect it to start unbuttoning your shirt or grope you through your clothes, but no such thing occurs.

After about ten more seconds of inaction and your curiosity manages to overpower your fear. When you open your eyes and lift your head up, the chicken is looking down at you with something akin to disgust in its giant plastic eyes.

You blink. “What?”

“Eww, gross!” Chica pushes you back and jumps off of you. “You look like that nasty old bear! Eww, eww, eww, eww, EEEEEWWWWWW! As if someone as cute as me would ever be caught _dead_ with that old fogey!”

You watch with furrowed brows and open jaw as the chicken scurries back out of the office as fast as its legs can carry it. Slowly, you stand, good eye staring blankly ahead to where Chica disappeared.

What the hell just happened?

You bring your hands to your head, pull off the object obscuring your vision, and hold it in front of your face to reveal none other than the Freddy Fazbear mask.

You hold the mask up close to your face to inspect it. By all means, it just looks like a regular ol’ Freddy mascot head. There’s no indication that it’s been doused in holy water or blessed by a priest. Chica was legitimately scared off by the image of Freddy.

You scratch your head in thought. So the animatronics don’t like when people wear Freddy’s face? Or maybe they just don’t like Freddy. Staring at that ugly mask and its stupid grin, you can appreciate that particular sentiment.

You brush off some dust from the nose of the mask and set it down on the desk in front of you. You stare at it for a moment, thinking back to the look of pure disgust that was on Chica’s face and the speed at which it ran its feathered ass out the door when it saw you in that mask. You can feel the corners of your lips turn up in a smirk.

You might just last the night after all.


	4. Hour 4: Care Bear Stare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My own clone! Now neither of us will be virgins!

Fourth hour, you’re sitting ramrod-straight in your chair while looking deeply into the eyeless sockets of Freddy Fazbear’s disembodied head. Not the actual animatronic’s head, mind you, though that would be metal as fuck; just the plush costume head that inadvertently saved your ass from bumping uglies with the bird ‘bot.

As long as you wear the mask, you should be safe from the animatronics, right? In any case, Toy Chica certainly isn’t a fan of it, so you’ll at least be safe from _one_ of them. And with a goofy-looking mug like Freddy’s, you can’t imagine why any of the others might react differently.

When you hear a thumping in the vents, you check the cameras and find Bonnie carrying a jar of what you can only assume is some sort of lube substitute in hand. Closer inspection reveals it to be a jar of marinara sauce. With your ass literally on the line, you decide now is as good as any time to test your theory. You slip the mask on over your head just before the rabbit crawls out of the vents. 

“Hey, bae, I’m back! With lube!” Bonnie looks back down to the jar in its hand. “Now, I wasn’t sure if you preferred Ragu or Prego, so I just mixed them half and half. I call it _Pragu_.”

When Bonnie finally spots you, its expression morphs from a buck-toothed shit-eating grin to a lip-curled cringe of utter disgust.

You wave coyly from behind the desk.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” It throws its arms up in the air. “I finally meet someone kinky enough to frick-frack a robot animal and, out of all the possible role-play scenarios you could have chosen, you decide you want to be the bear? The _bear_?!”

You fold one of your hands to rest underneath your plush bear chin. The other, you use to give Bonnie a come-hither gesture that you know would be sexy if you currently didn’t look like a disgruntled Disney character reject.

“Welp. If that’s not a boner killer, I don’t know what is. Fuck it; I’m out.”

And with that, Bonnie stomps off, tossing the jar of marinara sauce over its shoulder and crashing to the floor in a pile of glass and creamy tomato sauce as it grumbles the whole way out of the room.

 _Nice_.

You lean back in your chair, hands folded behind your neck as you let out a sigh of relief.

Ugly as it is, you decide you rather like this Freddy mask. You don’t care if it’s hard to breathe. You don’t care if it blocks out over four-fifths of your vision. You don’t even care that all you can smell is mothballs and mucous and your own musky breath stale from the leftover Chinese you ate several hours ago.

This stupid-looking bear head is like the mechanical furry equivalent of a chastity belt. It holds the sexual-repelling power of over ten socially-awkward mouth-breathers and as long as you keep it on there’s no way your ugly bear ass is getting laid tonight. There is absolutely nothing on this planet that will get you to remove this mask. _Nothing_.

Since you’ve found the ultimate game-breaking cheat code, you seriously consider just closing your eyes and sleeping off the rest of your shift. You decide against that particular plan of action when you hear a set of heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. You flash the light down the hall and see Toy Freddy way back in the distance and cheerily offer him a casual one-fingered salute.

The light goes out for a moment. You slap your hand against the flashlight’s handle and when the light flickers back on, Toy Freddy is about five feet closer than it was five seconds ago.

That’s… a little unsettling. Nothing to get too worked up over—not as long as you have your mask—but it doesn’t make the bear any less of a creep.

The light flickers off another few seconds and when the light turns back on, the bear is hanging right at the room’s entrance. Even with the mask securely in place, Freddy’s looking past the plush of the mascot head and staring you dead in the eyes.

 _Fuck_.

You close your eyes. It’s a stupid amateur pussy move to make, but you need to break away from the bear’s soulless stare, if only for a few seconds.

You count to five and when you open your eyes back up, that rosy-cheeked fuck is nowhere in sight.

“Fuck,” you curse.

Slowly, you lean over the desk and look down. No Freddy there. You flash the light over the left vent, then the right, then let it settle back over the entryway. Still no Freddy.

“Fuck,” you repeat.

That’s when you feel something grip your shoulder from behind. A paw, to be specific. Freddy’s paw. Freddy’s _very large_ paw.

“Hey little brown bear, lemme’ whisper in yo’ ear.”

“AHHH!”

You fall backwards in your chair with enough force to cause the whole thing to go crashing to the ground. The back of your head slams against the floor but the soft cushioning of your hideous Freddy head protects you from brain injury.

Slightly dazed, you pull yourself up into a sitting position.

From the small eyeholes of your mask, you can see Toy Freddy standing over you. It catches your eye and grins. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a visitor here.”

It reaches down and picks you up from the floor by the collar of your uniform, lifting you with ease. You stare at the fuzzy fuck with wide-eyed awe. Either you’ve lost some weight since you last measured yourself on the scale, or these robots are made a lot stronger than you originally thought.

It releases its grip on your shirt, but keeps close. One step backward and you find yourself pressed against the wall.

Freddy takes a step forward. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, baby bear, wearing my face in front of me like that.”

“No offense meant. I can take it off if you’d prefer.” You begin to reach for the zipper behind your head.

“No,” the bear says, trapping you between the wall and its burly chest. It gazes down at you with smoldering half-lidded eyes. “Leave it on.”

Oh god.

You clasp tightly to the flashlight still in your hands, brandishing it in the bear’s face like the deadly weapon you wish it to be. You flash the light on in Freddy’s face but, other than making the animatronic look even spookier, it has no effect.

Freddy tilts its head to the side, grinning smugly. “What are you going to do with that, baby bear? Bore me to death with a shadow puppet show?” The bear leans closer to you, the tip of its nose just a millimeter away from your own. It could kiss you if not for the mask covering your face. It looks like it might try anyway, mask be damned.

You smack the bear with the handle-end of the flashlight right between the eyes using every ounce of strength you’ve got which, considering the amount of adrenaline pumping through your veins right now, is actually quite a bit.

Freddy stumbles backwards, bumping into the wall a couple times as it drunkenly steps over its feet on its way out of the room. It stutters out children’s songs as it sways to and fro. Looks like that blow to the head was enough to scramble its circuits, though there’s no saying how long it’ll last.

As soon as the bear’s out of sight, you tear the mask off your head and chuck it straight into the trash can.

Okay, so _apparently_ the mask doesn’t work on Freddy because the big bear is the kind of narcissistic asshole who would fuck its own clone in a room full of mirrors while filming the scene to masturbate to later. Good to know.

Without the mask to hide your pretty face, your ass is fair game for the rest of the randy robots. Still, keeping the other ‘bots at bay isn’t worth it if it means Toy Freddy might come back to try and stick its over-sized paw inside your honey pot.

You run a hand through your sweat-slick hair as you turn to stare at the clock. It’s just a few minutes shy from four in the morning. Just two more hours left to go.

“I’ve already made it this far and evaded the sexual advances of four deviant fuck-bots. The rest of the night should be a breeze in comparison, right?”

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out and see you have one new text from Goldie.

Against your better judgment, you open the message.

**Wrong.**

“Fuck you, you piece of shit bear.”


	5. Hour 5: Yiff 'Til You're Stiff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled, Canoodling With The Noodle.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of updates. Just one more chapter after this one and I can finally lay this dead horse to rest.

Hour five, and you’re not sure how much longer you can last in this place before you end up with a sparkplug stuffed up your corn hole.

You stare at the Freddy head on the floor across from you. Maybe you were a little too quick to toss it aside? After all, Freddy seemed to be the only one to react positively to it and you already knocked the sense out of his circuits.

You shake your head. No! It’s not worth the risk! You have no idea how long Freddy Fuckbear will be out of commission; it could be two nights, two hours, or even just two minutes. You put that mask on and you might as well send the furry fuck a written invitation to stuff its bear claw in your honey pot. You’ll just have to last the rest of the night without it.

Still, how many more robots can there be? You’re pretty sure you’ve already faced all the toy counterparts to the original gang. Both Chica and Bonnie got frightened away by the Freddy mask and the big bear itself received a swift smack to the head with enough strength to scramble its system. Unless there’s another Golden Freddy hiding somewhere, there shouldn’t be any more animatronics.

And yet, you feel like you might be forgetting something. Something important.

“Wait,” you say, scratching your chin in thought. There’s still one robot you’ve yet to see an awful toy counterpart of yet. “What about Foxy?”

Your answer comes to you in the form of a burst of static sounding from overhead.

You look up and, there, lurking above the room’s entryway, is a robot fox in disguise as spaghetti. Or a clown. Or maybe a high-class prostitute. It’s wearing a _lot_ of makeup, after all, and its lipstick is just a little too bright to be in good taste.

When it sees you looking it twists both its heads in a knot.

You tilt your head to the side. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

Next thing you know, you’re hanging upside-down from the ceiling and wrapped up tight in an uncomfortable metal cocoon of grabby robot limbs.

“Oh no,” you grimace. “This is just like one of my Japanese animes.”

You attempt to break free, but your struggles only result in the metal coils tightening around your torso and limbs. It makes breathing uncomfortable and you can feel it cutting off the blood flow in your arms and legs. Still, you kick and thrash as if your life depends on it because, let’s be honest, it _does_.

“Please, keep fighting it,” the robot leers down at you. “The sight of your body thrashing in desperation is _exquisite_.”

Welp, that’s about all it takes to make your body grow completely still.

“Oh, _boo_! You’re no fun,” it says with its anthropomorphic fox head. Meanwhile, a metal exoskeleton head pops into your view and makes a series of strange clicking sounds at you while wiggling its mechanical eyebrows.

You blink your eyes but, no, you’re _not_ seeing things.

Two heads. It’s got two heads. Which makes you wonder, if you and the robot do it, would it technically be a threesome? Or would it just be masturbation with the help of a sex toy? These are the kinds of questions that keep you up at night.

As if sensing your line of thought, both sets of lips turn into wide, toothy grins.

You gulp. “Do not want.”

“Whaaaaat?! The others were talking about what a freak you are and yet you’re getting skittish from just a little bondage?! Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it on the ground, where my feet should be.” Also, it’s not so much the bondage that unsettles you as it is the horrible robot yiff-monster that wants do diddle your fiddle but you figure that part goes unsaid.

“Well, at least you’ve still got your sense of humor,” it says as the coils acting as its arms start to twist and wrap around your neck.

The spaghetti-looking motherfucker is wound around you so tight you can hardly fit enough air into your lungs. You can feel your head spinning, the lack of oxygen starting to make you dizzy. You open your mouth wide, trying your hardest to suck in sweet air but failing miserably.

“Oh my! You should see your face right now! The way you gasp for breath, how your pupils dilate with fear… It’s so lovely~!” The metal coil acting as the monstrosity’s neck spirals up around your torso, moving both its faces closer to your head. It stares you down with both sets of eyes. Only one of its eyes functions enough to lower an eyelid. “I want this moment to last forever.”

“Holy shit,” you wheeze out, “Are you actually getting off to this?”

It raises a mechanical eyebrow at you. “Are you _not_ getting off to this?”

“NO! Fuck, _of course not_!”

“Your loss,” it says with a shrug before ducking its head like it’s going to nibble on your neck.

“You don’t want to do this,” you tell it.

“Funny joke.”

“Okay, but seriously, if you don’t let me down soon, you’re going to be sorry. I’ve spent countless years training my body to piss and shit itself as a defense mechanism.”

Both mouths open in barely-contained excitement. “Really?!”

“God fucking damn it, is there any fetish you _don’t_ have?”

“Inflation.”

You blink. “What?”

“Inflation. I just don’t get the appeal of it. People don’t expand like balloons when you fill them up with helium. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Oh.”

Then the coils around your neck tighten with enough brute force to completely constrict your air flow.

You claw at the metal suffocating you but it doesn’t give. Your vision blurs and your hearing dulls and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll manage to stay conscious when your brain is being deprived of oxygen.

 _If this is how my life has to end_ , you think, _Please let me die before this shitty sadistic spaghetti robot sticks a tentacle up my poop-chute_.

And, considering this walking metal nightmare’s extensive list of horrible fetishes, you’d be surprised if necrophilia isn’t among them.

Just when you think it’s all over, you’re struck with a sudden wave of vertigo as your body slams into the ground. Before you can figure out what’s happening, you find yourself sprawled out across the floor, noisily sucking up mouthfuls of air like a Hoover vacuum. You barely catch the panicked look in the horrible fox abomination’s eyes as it scurries up along the ceiling and out of sight.

“Yeah,” you say, weakly shaking your fist as you continue to gasp for air, “You better run.”

You take another minute to just sit on the floor and collect yourself. Once the blood starts flowing back to your brain, you gain enough cognitive function to actually take a moment and think about your situation.

That robot seemed pretty intent on having its way with you, so what in the seven layers of furry hell could have spooked it so bad?

That’s about the time you notice that there’s strange music playing in the background. It stands out to you even though it’s just a small, insignificant detail.

And yet you can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is about to happen.


	6. Hour 6: Pop Goes Your Butthole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished. Praise Satan

Hour six, you’re still trying to figure out what in the hell is going on.

One minute, you’re being held captive in the cold mechanical tentacles of some robot fox spaghetti abomination intent on acting out its explicit Japanese anime fantasies on you; and the next, you’re tossed aside without so much as a goodbye slap on the ass. You’d be offended if you weren’t so relieved.

You take a moment to puzzle over what could have caused the robot’s sudden change of heart. Lifting your arms, you give your pits a quick smell-check. Nope, that’s not it; still fresh as a daisy. So what could have possibly scared away that nightmare-fetishist’s dream?

Then it hits you with a sudden wave of dread: you forgot about the music box.

You attempt to calm yourself. So what if you left the music box unintended? The only reason you ever paid the damn thing any mind was because of some random note you picked up and decided to heed on a whim. As far as you can tell, turning the handle and keeping the music going has done diddly-squat.

You chuckle to yourself. Now that you’ve actually taken the time to rationalize it, you don’t know why you ever got yourself so worked up in the first place. Calmly, you move over to the desk, sit down, and lean back in the seat. You pull up the security camera feed for the prize room and JESUS FUCK, what is _that_?!

Giant robot furries that want to fuck your hot butt are one thing, but mime-clown-puppet-shit-lords are a whole ‘nother ball park. You did _not_ sign up for this shit.

Whatever the hell it is, it stares straight into the camera, tilting its head to the side. It edges closer to the camera lens, stopping only once its asshole-mime face fills up the entirety of the screen. It looks like it’s smiling.

You blink and it’s gone.

“Haha, NOPE,” you say, backing up from the security feed and stepping out of the desk chair. “NOPE, NOPE, NOPE, NOPE, NOPE.” You stride straight out of that office, shoving a still-malfunctioning Freddy into the wall as you make your way to the bathrooms. You don’t bother to check if you’re going in the men’s or women’s room; just charge through the door closest to you. You walk into the first stall you see, shut the door behind you, slide the lock, lean back against it, and think long and hard about your life.

You’re not delusional enough to think you’re safe where you’re hiding now. As soon as that nightmare figures out you’re not in the office, it’ll look for you elsewhere. It’s only a matter of time before it finds you here, cowering in the bathroom like the sad piece of shit you are.

For a split second, you consider drowning yourself in the toilet before that _thing_ can have its graphically-described way with you. You immediately decide that idea is stupid and you’re stupid for thinking it. If you have to die tonight, it won’t be submissively on your knees with your head inside a toilet.

If you have to die, you’re going out on your own terms. If you must die tonight, then it’ll be in a blaze of glory. If you die tonight, you’re going to die the way you lived; naked, screaming, and chock-full of snappy one-liners.

You kick open the stall door and search the bathroom for supplies. You find a half-empty carton of cigarettes, a lighter, a rolled pack of condoms, and a bottle of hairspray.

You know what must be done.

_**~*~** _

With supplies gathered and a mediocre plan underway, you gird your loins as you step out of the bathroom and into the haunting hallways of Freddy Fuckboy’s Piece-of-shit. You tiptoe down the hall as quietly as possible, peeking around the corners as you make your way towards your destination.

All this quiet pussy-footin’ around isn’t exactly your style but you know you have to be careful wandering around the pizzeria. Without your monitors you’re going in blind so you have to change your tactics if you want to survive the rest of the night. After all, that asshole puppet could be anywhere; not to mention there are at least five other animatronics still wandering around the building as far as you know.

Still, it’s better to be running around in the dark like a jackass than sitting on your ass in one spot just watching the fuck-bot come after your hot butt like you’re the star of an interactive snuff film.

And thus, you continue to run around in the dark pizzeria like a jackass.

Aside from a few emergency lights here and there, your only source of illumination comes from the dull blue glow of your cell phone. Thankfully, you haven’t run into any of the other robots. They’re probably as freaked the fuck out over the puppet as you are. If the spaghetti monster’s reaction is anything to go by, they’re probably all hiding somewhere in a dark corner with their ro-buttholes clenched tight. Maybe, if you were smart, you would be doing the same.

But no one ever claimed you were smart, including yourself, so you continue to search for that creepy mime-looking motherfucker because you got the bright idea in your head that you’re better off confronting it than hiding from it.

Eventually your aimless wandering brings you to the puppet’s location. It’s in the office, poking around the desk like a nosy little shit. It’s so distracted it doesn’t even notice you until you stick your fingers in your mouth and whistle loud enough to hurt your own eardrums.

It lifts its gaze from the desk to you.

“Hey Puppet! You want these buns?!” you taunt, slapping your ass-cheeks in a rumba rhythm. “Then come and get them while they’re hot!”

The moment you see it take a step towards you, you make a mad dash down the hall in the opposite direction. You chance a glance over your shoulder to make sure it’s following you and, yes, it’s behind you and closing the distance _fast_.

On the bright side, it’s chasing you, just as planned. On the down side, _it’s chasing you_.

“Fuck!” you shriek as you run down the hall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuucccck!”

Your shoes skid across the tile as you turn a tight corner and burst right through the kitchen door in a flurry of pumping arms, stumbling legs, and heavy panting. You dart across the room, bracing yourself for the puppet’s arrival.

The door swings open wide as it follows you into the kitchen. Its head turns left and right, searching for you.

“Hey, Puppet!”

It turns to you just in time to catch the roll of condoms you throw at its face. Its eyes quickly dart from your face, down to the condoms, to the makeshift flamethrower in your hand, back to the condoms, then to your face again.

“Trust me friend, I’d hold onto those if I were you.”

The puppet watches as you use the hand holding the lighter to pull a cigarette out of your pocket and stick it in your mouth. You flick it around in your mouth a bit, smirking as your eyes quickly dart to the side. The puppet’s eyes follow your line of sight.

And that’s when it realizes the oven at its immediate left is unhooked from the wall and the kitchen is slowly filling with gas.

It turns back to you just in time to watch your smirk turn to a shit-eating grin.

“So keep the condoms.” You chuckle as your thumb hovers over the lighter. “Because you’re going to need all the protection you can get.”

It raises a finger and opens its mouth like it’s going to say something, then pauses. It looks at you, expression flat. “… _Really_?”

It doesn’t get a chance to say anything else about your snappy and totally original one-liner because it’s too busy being on fire.

“Looks like you should have stayed out of the kitchen,” you tell the burning pile of ash that was once the puppet. The flames spread and you flash a toothy grin. “Because you can’t stand the heat!”

YEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

_**~*~** _

By the time the owner of Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza pulls into the parking lot, the entire building is already engulfed in flames.

His tires screech to a halt and his car door slams as he comes running your way. “Holy shit! What did you _do_?!”

You don’t even turn your head; just stare at the building as it’s eaten away by sweet, cleansing fire. You pull one of the cigarettes out of the carton, light it off the roaring flames engulfing the building, and take a drag. “It was the only way.”

“What are you talking about?! You’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. Surely you could’ve—”

“ _It was the **only** way_.”

The two of you stare at the burning building a little while longer, the warm orange glow of the fire flickering across your faces.

“I’m calling the cops,” the owner tells you.

“It was worth it.”

_**~*~** _

When officers come on the scene to make an arrest, you don’t resist. You’ve done enough fighting for one day. You remain quiet and complacent all the way to the station.

“You’ve got one phone call, you fire-starting shit-log. Make it count.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, you calmly dial the number. You’d had enough time in the back of the squad car to think about who you’d call. Not that there was ever much to think about. There’s really only one person in your life you know who would be interested in this particular turn of events.

The phone picks up after the second ring. “ **IT’S ME**!” comes the raspy, static-filled answer.

“No shit it is; I’m the one who called you, you dense fuck. I hope you like conjugal visits, you asshole bear, because that’s the only way your stupid ass is ever getting laid again.” You slam the phone down on the receiver with a satisfied smile. “Alright, copper, take me away.”

The officer raises an eyebrow. “That’s it? _That_ was how you chose to use your one phone call?”

“…It was worth it.”


End file.
